Never Lost
by Gariand
Summary: Remember what you said, Kyle? Hope can never be lost... we're going to be fine...
1. Chapter 1

**Never Lost

* * *

******

Everybody's journey is individual. If you fall in love with a boy, you fall in love with a boy. The fact that many Americans consider it a disease says more about them than it does about homosexuality.

- James Baldwin

* * *

"_Get down on the ground, you fucking queers! Get down on the fucking ground!"_

_The occupants of the bar shakily lowered themselves to the floor, terrified beyond belief. The three men were holding guns, with balaclavas hiding their faces. Only a minute ago there had been dancing all around to the drag queen that was playing on the stage, only now 'she' had followed suit with the others and lain herself on the hard wood that was her stage._

"_You hear me, queermos!" One masked man bawled to the men and women shaking where they lay. "We don't take kindly to your type. We don't want your bar here, infectin' us with your AIDS, convertin' our kids to be like you."_

_He spat on the ground, neatly hitting a man curled in the fetal position._

"_You fuckin' poofs are always on TV, with your kissin' and your fistin' jokes, always gayin' somethin' up. Well guess what? It's all gonna change._

"_Youse all gonna die tonight, youse all gonna pay, you fuckin' pansies!"_

_He fired a few shots into the air, leaving splintered holes in the decorative ceiling._

_Somewhere on the floor, Stan Marsh shivered with fear._

_This shouldn't have been happening; The Greyhound was usually something that he found calming, a place he enjoyed going. It may have been a few miles from his house, and although South Park offered its own gay bar, this was the place that Stanley had been attending for years; a place he had found solace in when he was exploring his sexuality. He knew the barstaff and the regulars like the back of his hand. Even the performing drag queen was a good friend of his._

_All his friends were present in the gay bar; the gay men, the lesbians, the bisexuals and the transgendered. And they were all going to die._

_And next to him, Kyle Broflovski lay with his eyes shining with tears._

_Of all the people that were present in this less than desirable position, it was Kyle that he was most regrettable about. Kyle was not a regular in The Greyhound, he should not have been there at all. Stan had brought him here._

_Stan had brought him here, on the one night it was infiltrated by gaybashers._

_One masked man grabbed a nearby man, lifting him from the floor. "Get up off your knees, faggot. Although, I suppose it must be hard; you must be so used to being on your knees, standing must be a chore."_

_The others in the posse chortled stupidly as he gave the man a swift kick in his ribs and threw him back down to the ground. It was followed by more thuds of the man's boot to his chest and the man screaming for mercy._

_No one in the bar dared move. Although everyone wanted to be able to help the man, understandably, nobody wished to go up against the armed thug._

"_You bastards," Stan whispered, closing his eyes and doing everything he could to block out the shrieks of pain echoing from the other side of the room. But he felt far worse when it was another sound of a gunshot that followed._

"_One down." Even though he was muttering, everyone in the bar could hear what their oppressor was saying. "The rest of these faggots to go." He cocked his gun, and jingled his pocket. The sound of spare bullets rang through the room. "Use all your bullets, gentlemen. I don't want a single one of these queerfags left alive."_

_Stanley suddenly felt pressure on his hand as the first few bullets were fired, and the gays and lesbians on the floor attempted to get up and away from the situation. If they stayed on the floor, they were dead. If they ran, there was some chance they could live. Chaos ensued as bullets were fired. The garish wallpaper was spattered with blood in the first few seconds, as everyone who attempted to disarm their attackers was shot down._

"_Kyle… please," Stan whispered. "We have to try and get out now…"_

"_We'll be fine, Stan. I know we will."_

"_There's no hope, Kyle. We'll die if we stay… please…."_

"_There's always hope. Hope is something that should never be lost. Just trust me; we'll be fine."_

_Kyle was merely lying there, with his famous haircut, in his shirt and trousers, one hand upon Stan's, the other in his pocket, with shoes that were still spattered with mud from the walk up to the bar. Stan could not fathom it, how could someone have such faith that this would end well? Even through tears trickling down his freckled face, the sincerity in his eyes could not be ignored._

"_We'll be fine, Stan," he repeated. "Just stay down."_

_The massacre continued for a few more minutes, Stan and Kyle both staying low beneath the table they were hidden under. They heard the constant thumps of bodies hitting the floor, the screams around the bar. Stan winced at every sound; Surely someone must have heard something by now?_

_He heard a crunch at his head; one of the men had trodden on a broken bottle and was peering down at the still figures of Stan and Kyle, evidently trying to work out if they were dead or not. He turned away, as if settling on the former, before turning round and offering a swift kick to Kyle's face._

_As Kyle howled with pain, the man let out a nasty grin and lifted him up by the front of his shirt. "Did you think you'd get away with it, pretty boy? Did you really think you could escape from this?"_

_Even through his broken nose, Kyle laughed. "I did, as a matter of fact. Sorry about that."_

_Stan looked on in horror; how could Kyle act so calmly in the face of death? He longed to reach out and grab Kyle from the clutches of the man, but he knew that one wrong move could end it for both of them._

_The smiled washed away from the man's face and he let out a snarl that showed off his discolored teeth._

"_Think you're funny, faggot? Think that bravado is gonna save you?"_

"_Far from it," said Kyle, as if commenting on the weather, and he wiped the blood trickling onto his shirt with the back of his hand. "Bravado, won't save me. But they will."_

_He nodded towards a window, and Stan saw with glorious relief that blue lights were flashing through the glass. He made a mental note to never say a bad word against the police again._

_The men stopped their murder to turn towards the window, looking horrified._

"_Shit! Someone squealed to the pigs!"_

_The man with a hold on Kyle suddenly noticed that his hand was in his pocket, and wearing a look of fury, he wrenched the redhead's hand into the open._

_A phone lay in Kyle's palm, a message clearly displayed on the screen;_

Kenny. Call the police. Attack at the Greyhound. Kyle.

_The attacker looked furiously at the phone, then to Kyle's infuriatingly calm face. He threw his hand back and punched Kyle to the ground as the police attempted to break through the barricaded door._

"_Son of a bitch! Fuckin' faggot! Queerass Motherfucker!"_

_The expletives flew out of his mouth as fast as lightning, as he looked back and forth between the barricade that was being worn down by police to the boy picking himself off the floor, holding his face with a pained expression._

"_Bastard!" he cried finally, as his comrades attempted to escape out of a window in the back of the bar._

"_Come on! Leave him! Just get out before the pigs get in!"_

_The man waved them off. "I'll be out in a minute," as the other man finally pulled his bulky frame through the small window. "First, to finish you."_

_Stan knew what he was going to do moments before he did it. The gun raised, a shot fired and Kyle fell back, limp against the wall._

_The attacker looked down at Stan with an evil glint in his eye. "You can live. If only to see your fuckbuddy die like a bitch." He pocketed his gun, before following his other companions out of the same window._

_Stan was sorely tempted to follow the man, to grab him and haul him back. To hurt him more than anybody truly deserved, but the sound of Kyle's coughs alerted him to who really needed him._

"_Stan…?"_

_Stan crawled slowly up to his fallen friend… boyfriend… before gently picking him up and cradling him in his lap as the thumps of the police ramming down the door continued._

"_Sorry, Stan," he wheezed, his hands desperately clutching at his chest, trying to stem the steady flow of blood that was beginning to drip on Stan's trousers._

_Kyle was a mess; his face and torso was covered in blood, his nose at a sharp angle. And under Kyle's fumbling hands, Stan knew was a dark hole that was allowing his life blood to seep to the floor. And yet, even bloodstained lips found the strength to smile._

"_At least… they're gone… right?"_

_Stan nodded, brushing a lock of red hair from Kyle's dimming eyes, before giving a slight grin back at him; Kyle's smile was infectious even at the worst of times._

"_They're gone. Not before they plugged you though."_

_Kyle half laughed, half winced at this remark. "I'm sorry, Stan."_

"_Don't… don't apologise, Kyle. Please, this… this isn't your fault," Stan said, tears starting to run down his face. "Just… just keep talking… how did you manage to text Kenny with the phone in your pocket?"_

_It was at that point that the policemen who had been steadily barging against the blocked doors with a small metal ram finally managed to break through. Stan breathed a sigh of relief as paramedics flooded the scene, rushing to those who needed urgent attention. One squatted next to both Kyle and Stan, offering a sympathetic look to the both of them._

"_Are you alright, son?"_

"_I'm fine, just… Kyle, please, help Kyle!"_

_The paramedic could sense urgency in Stan's voice, and noticing the blood beneath Kyle's fingers he called over a couple more in his uniform. As they carefully lifted Kyle onto a stretcher, he looked to Stan at his side, still stained with blood._

"_Tell Mom, Dad and Ike that I'm sorry."_

_Stan clasped his hand, almost letting it slip from his clammy palms. "Don't talk like that. Remember what you said? Never lose hope. We're… you're gonna be fine. Remember? You said we'd be fine."_

"_Just tell them…" he repeated, as an oxygen mask was slipped over his face._

"_There'll be no need."_

"_I'm sorry…."_

"_Don't be."_

"_I love you."_

"_You'll be fine…"_

Stan would never forget that day.

* * *

**Hello Readers! **

**And welcome to the first instalment of my new multi-chaptered project. I honestly must be mad; this will be my fourth one on the go. But I wanted to write a fic that maybe didn't focus so much on the romance or romance troubles of the Stylish kind.**

**Homophobia is very real, and is very dangerous. I realise that South Park is a comedy, and that I am focusing on a subject that is far from comical. But South Park deals with real life issues, and so here I am, dealing with one that I understand better than any others I can think of.**

**Maybe enjoy isn't the right word, but I hope you like the route that this fic will take.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**Gari.**


	2. Chapter 2

**-**

**Never Lost**

_Trust a nitwit society like this one to think that there are only two categories - fag and straight. _

_-Gore Vidal_

* * *

**12/5/2008 – 8:04am**

Stan straightened his tie nervously, the red silk complimenting his navy shirt. He twisted and turned in the mirror, before settling that his appearance was more than satisfactory and heading towards the kitchenette.

"Morning, gorgeous!"

Stan smiled as he popped two pieces of bread into the toaster on the side, before having two arms wrap tightly around his midriff.

"Oof! Good morning to you too!"

He turned his head quickly to snatch a kiss, his blond haired lover wearing only in a towel at his waist and a smile on his lips.

"Well, well, well! Look at you! Aren't you smart?" He sat down on the counter top, deliberately spreading his legs. Stan laughed and picked up his now toasted bread, placing it quickly on a plate, before one was snatched away.

"Oi! I was gonna eat that!"

"Mine now," the blond man said quickly, nibbling the crusts.

Stan sighed, as if he was a naughty child, before picking up the various leaflets that littered the kitchen table, and placing them in his briefcase.

"So," said the blond man thickly, through a mouthful of toast. "Where're you off to today then?"

"Just to Denver, some high school. They requested that the KBMF do a presentation to the students. Apparently they've been having problems with some of the students, so they gave us a ring."

The blond man cocked his head slightly, gazing down at Stan with admiration in his eyes. Stan had often told him what had happened on that fateful night just over four years ago, and far from just wallowing in self-pity since then, Stan had done exactly as he had promised and had not only given himself a sense of fulfilment, but benefited many others as well.

"Give 'em hell, Stan."

"I will. I'll see you later, Kenny."

And with a final kiss, Stan Marsh left to do his duty.

* * *

**21/8/2004 – 3:17am**

_Stan sat in the "family room", as the hospital called it, clutching his black hair in complete and utter despair. Only five minutes ago, he had been talking with Kyle. Only four minutes ago, the heart monitors had desisted from their consistent beeping, leaving only an endless tone, and his love, Kyle, had lain still._

_It was almost too much to take in; a few hours ago, the most that was playing on either of their minds was what would be decided at The Greyhound. Now there was only one mind, one worry and one future. His body racked with unstoppable sobs as he rose from the chair, recalling what Kyle had said to him in his last few minutes._

"_**Promise me, Stan… promise me you'll live on. Be happy."**_

"_**How can I be happy without you?"**_

"_**I'll always be there, always. Miss me all you want, just don't let me stop you moving on… please… I beg you, Stan. I need you to promise me…"**_

_As much as he had profusely uttered his promise, it was now that he started to regret it, wondering how he could possibly keep such a thing. He could not remember crying for a good many years, and now he could not seem to stop. Every gulping breath he took in just made way for more wails of grief. He could not even restrain himself as the Broflovski family came in not too long later, Sheila with her arm wrapped firmly around the teenage Ike, whose own Canadian face was too pale for comfort, and finally Gerald, who's own grief seemed beyond tears._

_Stan was embarrassed, as he was the only one puncturing the horrible silence with his cries, and longed for one of them to say something as they sat opposite him, often sparing a pitying glance. He wished they wouldn't; they had lost their son and brother, they deserved it much more than he did._

"_Stanley…" Gerald said at last, as Stan had managed to calm his sobbing to a mere whimper. "They're… they're just cleaning him up right now… before…before he goes to the morgue." He hesitated for a second, clearly wishing he did not have to speak these words. "We can go see him in a minute, and say… goodbye."_

_Gerald's resolve had been broken, and as he himself broke down into silent tears, Ike reached over, placing his arm around his adoptive father's shoulders._

_Stan looked away, at anything other than the Jewish family, who's every look towards him appeared a mixture of pity and blame. They didn't deserve this, they didn't deserve to have to go through this. If only he hadn't taken him to The Greyhound…._

_Stan could take no more of sitting in the silence and the tension, and excused himself from the room. They gave him no inclination that they had heard him._

_He stumbled out the room, wiping his eyes furiously and feeling an old sense of nausea come over him. It was nothing like he used to have; vomiting when he had come over all lovestruck. No, this was true sickness. He honestly felt sick to the stomach, and managed to empty it as he ran headlong into the nearest toilet._

"_Goddamnit, Kyle…" he mumbled, his mouth tasting of acid. "Goddamnit… Goddamnit, God-Fucking-Dammit… GODDAMNIT!"_

_He punched the wall in utter frustration. "Why God? Why? WHY, GODDAMNIT, WHY?"_

_He span around, his teeth clenched and breathing harsh, whirling his fists at anything he could reach. His anger was more than he had ever experienced before._

"_I loved him. I. FUCKING. LOVED HIM! He was everything to me! AND YOU TOOK HIM! You took him from me… He's gone…" Stan collapsed to his knees, grasping at his hair as if to try and rip it out. _

"_I've lost him…."_

* * *

**12/5/2008 – 9:21am**

"Good morning, students!"

"Good morning, Mr Stewart."

Stan fiddled with the papers in his hand, reading again through the words that, although he knew off by heart, somehow gave him the most amazing amount of comfort. He loved doing this; it was his life and soul. He had poured everything he had owned into this, and more, and with every passing day, Stan's own personal fulfilment only grew and grew. And on this particular morning, he was seated on a stage in front of God-only-knew-how-many students at a Denver High School.

"This morning, we have some very special guests to talk to us." The grey haired Mr Stewart gestured towards Stan, who gave a little nod. "I want you to give a warm welcome to Stanley Marsh, Founder of the Kyle Broflovski Memorial Foundation!"

The students clapped politely as Stan stepped forward, taking Mr Stewart's place on the stage and he suddenly felt at least five hundred eyes on him. He was unfazed in this, however, and cleared his throat. He flicked a switch on the projector that lay on the table beside him, and on the wall behind, a blown up image of a newspaper appeared.

"Twenty-first of August, Two Thousand and Four, Seven Dead after Pub Raid," he recited, reading from the newspaper, even though the words were so familiar on his tongue. "Late last night, local bar, The Greyhound was attacked by three armed and masked men. Witnesses were not able to give a clear description of the men, however multiple suspects have been brought in for questioning. The attack on the pub left four dead at the scene, and another three early this morning. No money or valuables were taken during this event, and so police are searching for an alternative motive."

Stan looked away from the bold lettering and towards the shocked faces of the students sat in front of him, some with bemused expressions, as if wondering how this could possibly apply to them.

"Although it was headline news that day, the papers did not exactly give a true representation of the attack. They gave the basic facts, yes. But no amount of words on a page can fully convey the horror when something happens like that, especially when, as it says, something like that happens for apparently no reason.

"You see though… there was a reason. And no matter how much I told the police or the media about what the reason was, they didn't want to listen. It wasn't that they didn't care, it was simply because they didn't want to admit that such a problem existed."

Stan took a deep breath in; no matter how many times he had rehearsed the speech that he gave at this point, it always made him falter. Whether it was the memory of it or the inevitable reactions from his audience, he didn't know.

"You see, I was there at the attack. I was one of the lucky ones. I didn't get physically hurt that night, and was able to walk away from it without a scratch." He stumbled over his words, before doggedly carrying on. "But what the papers didn't explain, is what I will fill you in today. The Greyhound, which has since been closed down because of the extensive damage that night, was a noted gay bar. And that night, that very night when three armed men stormed the place, I was there with my boyfriend. And unfortunately, my boyfriend, Kyle Broflovski, was not like me. He was not one of the few lucky ones who had escaped without injury. He was one of the seven who were killed that night."

A respective gasp rose from the audience, although Stan was sure he could hear dark murmurs and sniggers from a few rows at the back. Wiping the annoyed look from his face, he carried on.

"That night, the men only came because of one thing; they knew that the bar was a gay bar, and all they wished to do was to put as many homosexuals six feet under as they could. But Kyle… he saved the twenty-eight other occupants of that bar, and lost his own because of it. If Kyle had not called for help, then I, along with everyone else at The Greyhound that night, would not still be alive today.

"The man I loved… died, simply for loving me back."

* * *

**21/8/2004 – 3:29am**

_Stan trembled as he took his shaky steps toward the gurney at the end of the room. He longed to vomit again, as the smell of the sterile room was overpowering in his nostrils. And yet he swallowed his bile, not allowing anything to come in the way of his final goodbye._

_He had to admit, as he got up close, as much as he hated hospitals, they could do one hell of a job when it came to, as Gerald put it, "cleaning someone up". Kyle's vibrant red hair shone in the glow of the overhead lights, a stark contrast to his pale face, which no longer bore the bloodstains that had been present during his last view of Kyle's face. And to finish off the picture of perfection, a pure white sheet draped gracefully across his body, which Stan knew hid the gaping hole that had been issued to Kyle a mere four hours ago. Stan's hand rested a moment on the still chest, as if hoping to stem the blood even now, before letting his arms fall loose at his sides._

"_Kyle?" he whimpered, staring into Kyle's closed eyelids. "Kyle…."_

_He cupped Kyle's face in his hands, leaning forward as if to kiss him. "Kyle…." It seemed he could not form any other word on his lips. "Ky…"_

_He choked, screwing his eyes up against the scream of anguish that threatened to burst from him. "KYLE!"_

_A small hand lay on his shoulder, and as Stan turned, he found himself face to face with the dark eyes of Ike. Stan let out a slight moan as the Canadian slipped his arms about his neck and hugged him tightly, their tears soaking each other's shirts._

"_It's alright, Stan… it's alright."_

_Ike's reassurances sounded so much like Kyle that Stan could not hold it in any longer. He had begged himself not to break down like this again, but it was simply overwhelming. Everything was just bearing down on him like a huge weight, invisible and unyielding, pressing down until all he could do was sob._

"_Goddamnit, Ike… goddamnit…."_

"_It's alright, Stan, it'll be alright."_

_Stan grasped Ike's back with all the strength he could muster, trying desperately to keep himself upright._

"_No, it's not… how… how can it be?"_

"_Trust me, Stan…"_

* * *

**12/5/2008 – 9:26am**

"I will tell you this now; whenever somebody says to you 'Homophobia is not a problem', they're wrong. Every time a comment like 'fag' or 'that's so gay' is said; that's homophobia. Every time being gay is the butt of a joke; that's homophobia."

A mutter spread through a row of students at the front; a certain sniggering in which "gay" and "butt" could be overheard. Stan scowled slightly, but was determined to not let it put him off.

"Every time homosexuality is thought to be second class to heterosexuality; that's homophobia. Our media doesn't like to portray positive gay role models, because the majority of society still considers homosexuals to be lower class to heterosexuals. And this does nothing to further society's image of us. People are afraid to be open about themselves, because they are afraid what people think. And as long as society is anti-homosexual, then being homosexual is seen as anti-social.

"Every five minutes, a teenager kills themself because they are gay. And for every one that succeeds, there are twenty more who try. That's the sort of problem that homophobia is. It corrupts those who are part of the majority, and destroys those in the minority."

"… faggots deserve…."

"WHAT!" Stan glared down at the front row of the students, where a lanky, dark haired boy had been sniggering to his neighbour. The words had been more than audible in the lull of Stan's speech, and the whole of the hall was now staring at the now shame-faced boy squirming in his chair.

The nervous Mr Stewart straightened his collar, before wagging his finger at the boy. "Now, Kyle. You know we don't tolerate that kind of language in our school!"

Stan had to fight back a laugh. "Kyle? His name's Kyle?" The boy was now fidgeting in his seat under his headteacher's and Stan's fiery glares. "You're kidding me…."

Stan strolled almost nonchalantly down the stage steps, not once taking his eyes off Kyle. He bent down, fixing an iron stare upon the boy, who let out a small whimper.

"Do you think it's funny? Using that word? Does it make you feel powerful, does it make you feel superior? Well? Does it?"

The boy gave no answer, just looking up at Stan with fearful, watery-blue eyes.

"Do you even know where that term comes from? Answer me!"

The boy named Kyle shook his head. "I jus' heard other people sayin' it an'…."

"Precisely the point in question!" Stan straightened up, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. He loved it when he was able to prove a point. He must have picked it up from Kyle all those years ago. "People don't think about meanings, all they know is other people say them, so it's cool to say them. Well, let me inform you all of where exactly 'faggot' came from.

"Faggots were small sticks used for kindling fires, old English term for them. So…" he searched the captive audience for someone who looked reasonably clever. "… you; can you make the connection between fires and homosexuals?"

The weedy, bespectacled girl that Stan had selected uttered in a mousy voice "Did they… did they burn them?"

"Full marks!" Stan swung round , focusing once again on the dark-haired Kyle. "Think about that next time you think of saying 'faggot'! Next question!"

"Stanley, don't you think you're going a bit overboard?" The woman on the stage had spoken at last; all the students knew of her was that she had arrived with this 'Stanley Marsh' as part of the talk. Stan merely waved her off.

"Alright, but just let me finish this."

She settled back in her chair, sighing. She knew how Stanley reacted to homophobia, and yet it still shocked her every time he went off on one of his 'educational rants'.

Stan paced up and down the stage, selecting his next victim. "You!" he said, pointing at a boy with scruffy hair. "Do you think people choose their sexuality?"

"Erm… yes?"

"Wrong, wrong, wrong!"

"I mean… no, NO!"

Stan smiled again. This sort of thing was highly amusing to him. "No, they don't. If people COULD choose, then why would they choose a sexuality that is only going to cause them untold troubles with parents, friends, religion and, most importantly, themselves?

"This is why I give these kind of talks. This is why I set up a Memorial Foundation in the name of my dead friend. Kyle Broflovski died simply because people couldn't understand or accept his sexuality. And I survived because of Kyle Broflovski. Kyle didn't want anyone else to die, and so here I am, trying to give you what those three murderers didn't have; understanding. Ignorance breeds hate. I want everyone here to know, be they gay or straight, that it is only hate that is wrong. Any type of love between humans should not be judged or condemned. That is what equality for homosexuals should be. We don't want special rights and we don't want to be treated differently. We just want to be seen as normal as any heterosexual."

He gave one final look to the Kyle on the front row, now looking at Stan with an air of slight admiration, before taking his seat back on the stage. The woman in the seat next to him patted his arm.

"Stirring speech, Stanley. I'm sure Kyle would have loved it."

Stan grinned and cleared his throat. "And students, here is the co-founder of the Kyle Broflovski Memorial Foundation. A very special woman, who knows what it is like to be in the position of a parent with a homosexual child. She also knows the pain of losing a child to homophobia. I'll admit that we never really got on in the beginning, but we both want the same goal, and as terrible as Kyle's death was, it brought us closer together.

"From a parents' point of view, Sheila Broflovski."

* * *

**21/8/2004 – 3:31am**

"_Don't say it, Ike!"_

_Stan threw himself away from Ike's embrace, trembling with anger. "Don't say that! How… how the hell can I trust you? You're only human, how can you possibly know that everything's going to be alright?"_

_The Canadian shrugged. "It's just… Kyle always said…."_

"_I KNOW WHAT KYLE WOULD SAY!" Stan ground his teeth together, glaring hatefully at Ike's shocked face. "I do… did know him pretty well, you know! I fucking lived with him! I fucking loved him like you can't imagine! I knew his every quirk and loved every one of them! He was exactly the type to reassure me, exactly the person who could make me believe that everything would turn out rosy!"_

_He gestured wildly to the cold figure that lay beside them._

"_Sorry to disappoint you, Ike, but the only thing rosy was Kyle's fucking shirt! He's dead, d'you hear! He's dead! How can anything POSSIBLY be alright when the person who meant the most to me in the world can't be there anymore?"_

_Ike looked to the ground sadly, tears dripping to the floor from his chin. Stan was already beginning to feel sorry for his outburst._

"_I don't know, Stan. I really don't know." Ike shook his head and glanced to Kyle. "But I do know something; I'll be there."_

_Stan started to speak, but Ike pressed on._

"_I know… I'm not Kyle. I'm far from Kyle. Not even blood-related." He gave a small chuckle. "But that didn't matter to him. And I don't care if it's aboot the stupidest thing, call me. Kyle loved you, I know it. And I loved him like a real blood-related brother. I want to help the man who made my brother so happy."_

_Stan opened his mouth again to speak, but could find no words to say. He merely wiped his eyes with his sleeves._

"_As do we, Stanley," said a low calm voice behind him. He turned; Gerald and Sheila had come forwards from the door and were gazing at their son with expressions of understandable grief. "I realise… we may have had our differences. But after… after this, we… we just want to make amends."_

_They brushed past him, with a slight grasp of the shoulder, and huddled with Ike around the gurney, blocking Kyle from Stan's view. He turned on his heel, and sauntered towards the doors, leaving the family alone to grieve._

"_Dude!"_

_He looked up from the parquet flooring; a blonde haired young man was running along the corridor towards him._

"_Stan! You're alright! What happened? I got the message from Kyle and called the cops but I don't know… Stan?"_

_He grabbed hold of Stan's coat. "Stan? I was told they brought Kyle here, that's why… Stan? Where's Kyle?"_

_Stan answered by collapsing in Kenny's arms._

* * *

**Okay, to clarify; the first chapter is the main event of the story. Everything else I write will be either before or after it, and dates and times will be provided to try and give readers an idea when things happen and what order.**

**However, I do realise that to be drinking in a gay bar, they had to be 21, and it doesn't fit in with them being 8 in 1997, but hey, I kinda just want the dates like this, otherwise it would be happening in the future, and I don't want that.**

**Anyway, thanks for reading!**

**Gari.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Never Lost**

_The important thing is not the object of love, but the emotion itself. _

_- Gore Vidal_

* * *

**24/8/2004 – 11:56am**

A hand rubbed Stan's back in a soothing way, as he was doubled over on the couch, hiccoughing madly and babbling the same words over and over again.

"Kyle… Kyle…."

Sharon Marsh hated this; she hated seeing her son like this. It had been an unrelenting wave of near psychotic grief. Admittedly, she had always known that Stan and Kyle had been close, as friends of course, but even from the beginning, she had asserted that her Stanley's 'infatuation' with Kyle was just that. An infatuation.

She was beginning to feel the remorse now, as she had watched her son attentively over the past three days. Every slight movement, she would be there to catch him. Every word he spoke, she would listen to every murmur. Every time he mentioned that which he had lost.

Loss… it was not something that Sharon was used to. Yes, there had been Aunt Flo; but Sharon had never been close to her, and as much as the regular visits disappeared, she was quite glad to see the back of her. And even as she continued to try and soothe her distraught son, she knew one thing above all others; she could never understand.

And even now, the doubts that had plagued her for the God only knows how many years that Stan had been 'out', as he called it, to her, she was beginning to feel the regret for. She was far from a good parent; Sharon had not been there when her son had needed her most. She was here now, certainly, comforting him at a time when it seemed impossible to comfort him, but when he had said it, when he had said those words so many years before, what had she done? What had she said?

"I'm so sorry, Stanley," she muttered, as she pulled him closer towards her. No, this was not what she had said, and if she could turn back the clock, they would never have to be.

She glanced up to the door, through which the similarly tearful Broflovskis had left a minute earlier. "What did Gerald and Sheila want?"

Stan wiped his eyes on his shirt. "They wanted… they wanted me to read a eulogy… f- for Kyle."

Yes, Sharon could be there for Stan now. It was not completely lost.

* * *

**21/8/2004 – 5:18am**

_Randy dully rubbed his sleep-filled eyes, wondering what it was that had woken him up at such an ungodly hour. He belched as he stretched out his arms, wincing as his aching head was penetrated by the sharp noise of the telephone._

"_Sharon?" he yawned, while pulling the bedcovers back over himself. "Sharon?"_

_His wife stirred in the bed beside him, throwing Randy an annoyed look. "Honestly, you're up, why didn't you get it."_

_When there was no reply, only the piggish snoring that allowed her to know that Randy was no longer listening to her, Sharon sat up, swearing slightly, before picking up the phone, rubbing her eyes as her husband had done, trying to wake herself up._

"_M- mom?"_

_She froze as the voice on the end of the line was horrifyingly familiar._

"_Stanley?"_

_The phone shook in her hand; it must have been a year at least since she had talked to him, and even then it hadn't been on friendly terms. Sharon gripped the receiver so tightly that her knuckled blanched, and the voice that she spoke to her son in was terribly forced._

"_Is everything alright, sweetie?"_

_Sweetie. If it had been over a year since she had last spoken to him, then it must have been at least two since she had referred to him with one of her endearing nicknames. The boy… man on the end of the line must have realised it too, as Sharon suddenly heard the sound of sniffing, which could mean one of two things; either Stan had a cold, or something terrible had happened._

"_Mom, could you… could you come get me?"_

_She sat bolt upright, swinging her legs to the floor. It definitely wasn't a cold. Call it mother's instinct, but she knew when Stan was upset, truly upset. And even through the past… discord, shall we say, she was not going to let that stop her from helping her only son when he was genuinely distressed._

"_Of course, of course," she said breathlessly, her heart making a slight swoop. She had barely let herself hope for this moment, but her brain was now in overdrive; he's seen the error of his ways, he's coming home. "Where are you, sweetie?" she said as she was slipping into some jeans._

"'_M, 'm at the hospital."_

"_The hospital?" Her eyes widened in shock, before she transformed into concerned mother mode. "Stanley, are you alright? You're not hurt are you?"_

"_N- no…" he mumbled back. But Sharon had to keep pressing on._

"_He hasn't hurt you, has he? Kyle hasn't…" She stopped as Stan moaned pitifully down the receiver. "Stanley? Stan?"_

"_Mom, please… just… just come, please."_

_The phone went dead in her hands, and Sharon stared dead ahead for what seemed like hours. She had honestly never heard such despair and desperation in a human voice before, and felt sickened that it had come from her own son._

_It was only when Randy turned over in his bed and let out an ear-splitting snore did she come to her senses, grabbed the car keys, and sped all the way to Hell's Pass as quickly as possible._

* * *

**26/8/2004 – 12:43pm**

Stan shuffled on the podium; it was not often that he had entered the synagogue, and even now, the unfamiliarity of it was impeding his speech. He could give one hell of a speech in church; heck, Kenny gave him enough practice in that. But this?

No, giving a speech in the synagogue… he had only known one Jewish person, incidentally the most important person in his life. And he would have done anything in the world rather than to have to deal with that one Jewish person's death.

"Kyle…" he stuttered, rifling through the pages that he had written so carefully ever since the Broflovskis had requested that he make the eulogy. This had to be perfect… he couldn't fuck this up. _Come on, Stan, _he thought to himself. _"You're twenty-two for fuck's sake, stop acting like you're eight!" _It was the sight of Kenny that did it; the beautiful, blonde-haired Kenny, who had spent every possible minute at the Marsh residence, reminiscing when Stan wanted to remember, joking when Stan wanted to forget. It was as if Stan had swallowed the exact medicine to hold his head up and read unerringly to the mournful crowd.

"We're all here today to say goodbye to someone who means a lot to all of us in this room. Kyle Broflovski; beloved son, brother, friend… boyfriend."

Stan could see the fearful look in his mother's eyes, and the rage in his father's, but far from being deterred by them, it only spurred him on, that this was the right thing to do.

"It's funny, really. Me and Kyle would always talk about what we were gonna do when we're older; whether we would buy a house together, maybe get a dog, maybe even adopt a couple of kids. And now we can't do any of that stuff. Or at least, Kyle can't.

"When you mourn someone, you mourn both the past and the future; you remember the little things about them that separated them from everyone else, their likes, dislikes, how many times they brushed their teeth in the morning. And you also consider the 'what if?'. What if Kyle was here? Would we do this? Would we do that? How many more happy memories could we have shared?

"I don't know. I can only imagine what could have happened in the future with me and Kyle. But I know certain things; I know I loved Kyle, I know Kyle made me happier than anybody else in the world, and he let me know every single day that he felt the same way back. Y'see, there are some people here who don't yet know, and they deserve to.

"Kyle Broflovski was my boyfriend."

Randy Marsh stood up suddenly in his seat, his rage at peak point. His wife tugged at his sleeve slightly. "Randy, please… not now."

Quelled by his wife, the black-haired moustached man sat down, grinding his teeth and folding his arms. Stan fixed him with the ugliest glare he could muster.

"I'll admit… it was difficult. Very difficult. I know both me and Kyle suffered during that time of… discovering ourselves, shall we say. We clung to each other, both confused and scared by what we felt. When you're just a couple of kids, who don't know any better, anything different to the norm is scary. But we were there for each other, unlike some."

His mother made a slight strangled noise in her throat.

"Heh… it was never anything we planned. We never thought 'Oh, I'm gay and you're gay, let's date!', we still considered each other friends. But, I don't know, something happened; I just… loved being around him. And it just grew. I needed him. I found myself in love with my best friend."

Everyone in the synagogue was staring at him, with so many different expressions on their faces; fear mingled with disgust, some with outright shock. Only Kenny gave him a small thumbs-up, with a grin of pride for good measure.

"And I'm so glad, so so glad that it just happened that way, because Kyle… Kyle was the best thing that happened to me. He was the sort of person… I mean, what he did for me tells you more than enough what he was like; he always thought of others before himself, always determined to do the right thing, no matter what cost to himself.

"He saved me, numerous times. And… I just wish I could go back and thank him all over again. He just… I can't explain it all right now."

Fresh tears welled up in his eyes, and his hand strayed to the keepsake dangling from the necklace at his throat. "I'm so sorry, Kyle. I'm so sorry. You gave so much to me and… I'm so sorry."

* * *

**21/8/2004 – 5:42am**

_Sharon pulled up forcefully outside the grim walls of Hell's Pass Hospital. She hated this place; it was never nice to have to go to any hospital, but Hell's Pass was far from any hospital. Waiting rooms filled with folks bleeding to the floor, some squirting it across the room and doctors merely sparing a glance and only moving to the person with the most money._

_The front desk came into view as Sharon walked steadily through the revolving doors. It was only now that she realised that she had not done her hair or put any make-up on. But she waved it away as a trivial matter, and steadied her shaking voice as the receptionist smiled sweetly up at her._

"_Hello, excuse me… I'm looking for Stanley… Stanley Marsh."_

_The receptionist flicked through the notes on her desk with red-taloned fingers. "Marsh… Marsh…." She shook her head slightly. "Sorry, we've not admitted any Marshes today…."_

_Sharon began to panic. "But, he called me! He called to say I should pick him up!" When she still showed no sign of recognition, Sharon said in a distressed voice "He's got black hair, in his early twenties with a brown coat?"_

"_Friend with bushy red hair?" the receptionist replied._

_Sharon's heart sank. "Yes," she said in a hollow voice. "Yes… Kyle Broflovski."_

_She could tell that she had got it just by the look on the receptionist's face. Unnecessarily, the blonde produced a square brown file from the desk drawer. "Broflovski, admitted around midnight. You're a relative of the person who came in with him then?"_

_Sharon nodded, and was given military-esque directions to the third floor. Feeling slightly sick, she made her way slowly to the elevator, almost dreading when the doors would open._

* * *

**26/8/2004 – 12:43pm**

"I want everyone present to know something; as he was… as Kyle was in the hospital, he told me, begged me, to never devote myself to hate. He wanted me to carry on, to be happy, even if he couldn't join me in it. Even as he was in his last few minutes, he only had my best interests in his mind. And I think this best sums him up. No matter what the situation, he always took the moral high-ground, always trying to do what was right, what was fair, and even if someone was unfair to him, he always had more than enough room in his heart to forgive them.

"And he always told me… always, that he was so lucky that he had me. But he was wrong; it was me, who was the lucky one. And I never told him that."

There were sobs echoing around the white building and Stan put his face to his hands, trying to stem his own, and he suddenly became vaguely aware that someone was walking up to the podium beside him.

"Come on, dude. It's alright… come on, sit down now."

"No, Kenny, please… just a minute, just a minute…."

"You don't have to do this…."

"Yes, I do… I do… I do."

Two words, and immediately Kenny had let go of his arm as though burned. "Alright, but be quick; people are starting to get bored," he said in a low whisper, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Stan breathed a laugh. "Just like Kyle; he would always go overboard with minute details."

Kenny patted his arm, before heading back to his seat. Stan stood up, and suddenly felt better than he had in the past few days. Kenny had told jokes over the past few days, trying to help Stan cheer up, and yet this simple one-liner, at the funeral of all places, had felt like a sudden breath of fresh air. Yes, this was what Kyle had wanted.

"Kyle was killed because of hate, pure and simple. By people who didn't care that he made me happier than anybody else, who didn't care that he would do anything for anyone, who didn't care that Kyle was probably the most morally upright person in the world. Kyle… he even asked me to forgive them for what they did, because he knew, some people just can't understand, and people who resort to aggression because of their ignorance should be pitied. Forgiven, pitied, but never forgotten. Kyle managed to save my life that night, and I'm not going to waste it in self-pity, or merely hating the bastards who killed him. Kyle deserves better than that.

"I love you, Kyle. Wherever you are now, you need to know; I love you and always will. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you, because you deserved it."

Silence followed as Stan stepped down, and was welcomed into Kenny's warm arms. "That was beautiful, dude."

"Do you think… do you think he'd like it?"

"Stan, you know Kyle better than I do. And anyway, if he didn't absolutely love it, I'd eat my parka."

* * *

**21/8/2004 – 5:46am**

_Sharon opened the door in trepidation, unsure of what lay behind. She could hear unrelenting weeping from the other side, and as the crack in the door grew wider, she saw with a shock, that it was Stan, laying in the arms of one of his old friends, Kenny McKormick._

"_Oh, Stanley!"_

_The blonde young man rose to his feet, as Stan was pulled into a hug from his mother. He always felt awkward with grief, almost as if while everyone else was busy mourning, he was a mere bystander, someone detached. Cartman had always said that it was simply because "Kenny is a poor bastard of a slut who can't feel emotions of normal people", but who listened to Cartman anyway, Kenny had reasoned._

"_Mrs Marsh?" he said nervously, to which Sharon raised her head slightly off her son's shoulder. "Look after him, alright? I'm afraid you're too late. He's gone."_

_She let out a small gasp, partly because of the news itself, and because of the matter-of-fact way Kenny had delivered it to her._

"_Just get Stan out of here. I'm heading off myself now, his parents deserve some privacy."_

"_Understandably," she said almost breathlessly, as something caught her mind. "Can you just… tell me what happened?"_

_Kenny's startlingly blue eyes flicked from the earnest look in Sharon Marsh's face to the tear-soaked version of Stan's. There was no doubt that he wouldn't be up for talking about this at all in the next twenty-four hours._

"_Very well," he sighed. "But listen, I know what went down between you and this couple right here, so before I tell you, you need to promise me, for Stan's sake, and for Kyle's memory, that you won't let the past get in the way of necessary mourning, okay?"_

_She nodded to show she understood. How could she not? There was no way she would ever be able to blot out that particular timeframe._

_Kenny sighed again, reaching into his pocket to check for cigarettes. His lungs were aching for a drag of nicotine, but for the time he had spent here, he had dared not stray from his post; Stan had needed someone there for him._

"_It was an armed attack, with a gun," he muttered in his monotone voice. "It was a deliberate, unprovoked attack, and Kyle got caught in the crossfire. Internal bleeds and whatnot. You came about a couple hours too late to finally make your peace with him, I'm afraid. But I'm sure he'll forgive you, if you ask him now, just like he forgave his parents."_

"_What do you mean by that?" she said, almost stung by his comments._

"_It was a homophobic attack, Mrs Marsh! Kyle is dead because of the same reason you threw out your own son!" Kenny had clenched his fists, at his wits end, his body crying out for a cigarette. "And do you know what? The Broflovskis actually apologised to Kyle, for every slight grudge they had against his sexuality. And he forgave them, even on his deathbed, he told them they had no need to apologise!" He put on the calmest voice he could muster. "Now, may I suggest, that you take Stan home, make sure he gets some sleep, and for the love of God, don't abandon him again. He needs you now. I know you weren't there last time, but you can be now. The love of his life just died, for Christ's sake. Don't let the gender of that love of his life get in the way again, okay?"_

_And with a sharp turn on his heel, he left the two Marshes on their own in the family room. Family, he thought with a laugh, as he pulled out a long, cheap cigarette from its packet. What is family anyway?_

_He strode out of the revolving doors, leaning against the wall outside as nicotine filled his lungs. That's better, Kenny thought contentedly, before placing his lips against the filter once more._

_What is family? Is it your parents? People related by blood? Brothers, sisters, cousins? There are far too many people trying to generalise this term, thought Kenny, as he reminisced. Were Stan's parents his family as they had thrown him from the house so many years before? Was Ike not part of Kyle's family, simply because they were not blood-related? His mind even wandered to the dubiously named 'family programs' attempting to convince the world that family, and marriage alongside it, had to consist of one man and one woman._

"_Bullshit!" he spat. No, there was no one closer than Stan and Kyle. No one who loved one another so deeply. No one who would have gone so far as they would for each other. They would have moved the Earth and back again if the other had so desired it, and simply because they were the same gender, they could not be part of each other's family?_

_Kenny stamped angrily on the smouldering remains of his cigarette, gave Hell's Pass Hospital one last weary glance, before pulling his jacket lapels up to keep his neck warm, and headed home._

* * *

**First of all, I want to thank everyone for reviewing. I had no idea how this was going to be received by FFnet readers, and so far it seems positive, so thank you.**

**And a special thank you to Fushigi and Microwaved Noodles. Bigggg long reviews are very much appreciated, and I want to thank you both for your Anti-homophobia ideals. It's people like you that give me faith in humanity.**

**Anyway, thank you for reading!**

**Gari.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Never Lost**

"I'd rather be black than gay because when you're black you don't have to tell your mother."

~Charles Pierce, 1980

* * *

**20/8/2004 – 11:53pm**

"_Hurry up! This guy's losin' a lotta blood here!"_

"_Quick! His BP's dropping!"_

"_Flatlining! He's flatlining! Clear please!"_

"_Sir, we need you to let go of his hand! Now! Clear!"_

"_Clear!"_

"_CLEAR!"_

* * *

**12/5/2008 – 11:44am**

"Honestly, Stanley. As much as I admire you when you display such a lack of tolerance for homophobic language, don't you think you could at least give them the same information in a calmer way?"

Stan twiddled the steering wheel slightly as a sign for 'South Park' came up ahead. Not that he needed the sign. He had lived in Colorado for his whole life, and knew the area like the back of his hand.

"Sorry, Sheila," he said with a shrug. "But I'm afraid I just can't stand it. I mean, if we don't crack down on the language, then to students it just becomes okay to say it. And if it becomes okay to say it, it becomes okay to discriminate. And who knows where that could lead to? If we can nip it in the bud, then it means that the gay kids in that school feel safer, knowing that homophobia is not going to be tolerated. And if it means a few gay kids go without suffering torment every single day, then I consider it a job well done."

The red-headed woman shook her head slightly, but didn't bother arguing the point. "So, have we got anywhere else lined up?"

"Nah," said Stan vaguely, as he turned into Bonanza Street. "Not schools anyway. We've been given permission to add some more leaflets to in some public places, but nobody's called or anything. Besides, I need to keep tonight free for the drop-in center. It wouldn't do for me to have to plan another presentation." He pulled on the handbrake forcefully as he stopped by the familiar olive green house along South Park's main road. "You got any further with PFLAG?"

"Unfortunately, no. Mayor McDaniels is being particularly stubborn about letting out the community centre for a 'silly gay club, when there probably aren't that many in South Park anyway'." Sheila noticed that Stan's knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel. "I know it's frustrating, but we've got to persevere."

"I realise that, Sheila. But, honestly… it's just… just… wrong! Why as a group of people, are we and our supporters discriminated against? I mean, it's not a picnic for anyone, not the gay person or those close to them when someone comes out. We need to be able to support people, or else things, dangerous things can happen!"

He banged the steering wheel with his fist in frustration, and while he waited precariously for the airbag to hit him in the face, all it caused was an angry sound from his horn.

"I'm sorry, Sheila," he said quietly, as she looked on in shock. "I'm sorry… I just… I just want to feel like… I want to make some progress. I want to…."

"You want to be able to make a positive contribution, because that's what Kyle wanted?"

"Exactly."

"Do you want to come in for lunch?"

Stan felt a grin creep up his previously frowning lips. "Have I ever refused before?"

* * *

**26/8/2004 – 13:29pm**

"_There was no need for any of that."_

_Randy was muttering darkly as the mourners strode out of the synagogue. The Broflovskis had hung back with the rest of the obscure relatives, many of them sharing some of Kyle's various features; Stan's heart had taken many a leap when he'd noticed a certain shade of red hair or a large, stereotypically Jewish nose on somebody other than the man who now lay somewhere in the ground beneath them._

_Sharon shot her husband a warning look. "I said before, Randy; not now."_

"_Just sayin'." He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. "We already knew he was a faggot, no need to publicise it…."_

"_Randy!" Sharon hissed, looking quickly at Stan, who had murder in his eyes. "I've said so many times now; stop it. We're at a funeral."_

"_Why?" he grunted. "Stan could say whatever the hell he liked, why can't I say it now? My son's a faggot and admitted to everyone here that he was shacking up with Kyle…"_

"_Shut up," Stan whispered dangerously. "Don't you dare say his name again!" His limit had been reached. For two long he had taken the insults of this man, and right here, right now, enough was truly enough. "Why did you come? It's obvious just how much you hated even the idea of me and Kyle together, and now, when I am mourning my boyfriend's de…."_

"_Quiet, Stan!" Randy had gone red in the face. "Don't say that word again!"_

"_Boyfriend! Kyle Broflovski was my boyfriend!"_

_A sharp smack pierced the air; Stan lay on the ground clutching his nose and Randy looked back and forth from his fist to his son. Sharon uttered a small yelp before rushing to Stan's side._

"_Stanley! Are you alright?" She reached out her arms to help him get up, and shot a look almost equal to Stan's anger at her husband, who was still gazing stupidly at his clenched fist._

"_Happy now, are we?" she spat. "You could have seriously hurt him, and for what? Because you simply can't admit that our son happened to have a relationship with Kyle?" Sharon slipped her arm around Stan's waist, and pulled him back up to a standing position, still anxiously checking his bruised face. But he had no time for his mother at that precise moment; his cold, blue eyes were fixed solely upon his father's, who's iris shade was precisely the same. The thought sickened Stan; they were incredibly similar, in looks, in certain quirks they had, and yet both wanted nothing more than to have no genetic relation to the other._

"_Just go home," Stan muttered in contempt. It was only now that he realised that all the other mourners had bunched together by the doors of the synagogue, hands over their mouths as they watched in horror. He shook his head sadly; he wanted his father to leave, right now, before he managed to spoil Kyle's funeral any further. Not just for his grieving parents, who had the same fear on their faces as the others, but for himself. He didn't want his memories of this day to be ones plagued by the idiocy of the man he once called "Dad"._

_Randy had finally given up on his onslaught, almost catching himself on where he had chosen to brawl his son. "Fine… fine! C'mon, Sharon. We're going…."_

_He turned quickly, but looked back when he realised that a second pair of footsteps were not following his. "Sharon? Come on, it's obvious the fag doesn't want us around."_

_Sharon Marsh winced. "Y'know, Randy. You've never stopped using that word for Stanley, ever since…."_

"_I said you should go, not Mom," Stan interjected, still not moving his glare from his father. The favour was returned with a low snarl._

"_I said come on, Sharon!" He took another step away, expecting again that his wife would follow him, and had to look back towards her when the exact same thing happened again._

"_Sharon! Let's get out of here!"_

"_Just go," Stan said, in the tone of finality. Randy swivelled his eyes from his son to Sharon, a strange lost look on his face. It was almost pitiable._

"_Sharon?"_

_Almost._

"_Just go, Randy."_

_It had disappeared as quickly as it had come, and a scowl took its place. "Fine," he snarled through gritted teeth, before leaving one last louder utterance as he stormed away. "FINE!"_

"_I thought he'd never leave," said Stan as he turned his back on the scene, moving closer towards the Broflovskis to apologise for what had just happened. But Sharon just kept staring at Randy's retreating back, tears shining in her eyes. She had made the choice that she had not allowed herself to make since… well, what did it matter? All that mattered was that she actually felt pleased with herself in this. For too long she had merely just taken the easy way out; following the lead of her husband, even if she didn't fully agree with it. She loved Randy, no doubt about it, but he had often made a wrong choice, and even if she hadn't agreed, she rarely confronted him about it._

"_Are you alright, Mom?" Stan had returned from his apologies, giving Sharon a slight pat of the arm. She wrenched her eyes from the disappearing image of her seething husband and brought them face to face with her son… her darling boy. Tears dripped down her cheeks as she gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile._

"_I'm fine, Stanley." Placated, he moved as if to wander towards Kyle's grave, but Sharon held him back, pulling him into a tight hug. "I'm so sorry, Stanley… I'm so sorry…."_

"_I'll miss him," he muttered simply, but Sharon shook her head._

"_Not just about that… about everything…. I just… I'm so sorry… I wish I could have been there for you. And Kyle… when you were so happy… you were so happy. And I missed so much… I'm so sorry…."_

"_You're here now… even if K-Kyle isn't…. And that… that means a lot…."_

_She pulled in tighter and closer, as if she never wanted to let him go again. "And I will always be here for you now, Stanley. That's a promise…."_

* * *

**12/5/2008 – 19:56pm**

Stan leant back casually in his plastic chair, surveying the scene around him; mimics of the chair he was sat in surrounded him, almost like a wall, both trapping and protecting him.

He had done this drop-in center (or what he liked to call, his "stint") for barely over two years now, and in some ways, it had become one of his now quite a few reasons to live. He offered a service to the young people of South Park; the confused, the ashamed and the scared. Every time he did this, he could see himself in the kids that ambled through the doors, their fears and worries echoing those that haunted him from so long ago. And yet this offered him his release from them. He could use the knowledge he had gained to help those that sought his help. He could have merely resented the fact that nothing like this had been around for when he needed it, but Stan Marsh was a better person than that. It was here now, and he was here to see it; that was all that mattered.

His bright eyes reflected the dingy light cast down from the strips off lights across the ceiling, a grin playing on his lips.

"Are you watching, Kyle?"

As creepy as it may have sounded, talking to a boyfriend who had been dead for nearly four years, to Stan it was merely one of his daily rituals. Nobody else minded when he went into his own little world, mouthing or saying words in the hope that they could reach the afterlife. Stupid, maybe, but Stan always had to do it; his day would feel empty otherwise.

The ugly, tubular light flickered, reminiscent of a certain cheeky redhead's wink. Stan had never asked himself if he looked too much into these "signs" that he was sure Kyle gave him, he'd never needed to; there was absolutely no way that light could have flickered so much like Kyle's eyelid's even if it tried.

"Heh… real smooth, dude."

The double doors at the end of the hall slammed open, a teary eyed teenager stumbling into Stan's presence.

"John?"

The boy sat quickly down on one of the chairs, the bag he was carrying dropping to the floor with a loud bang. Stan knelt down slowly in front of him.

"John? What happened?"

The boy was a regular to Stan's group; a jittery, nervous Tweek imitator to begin with, and one of the first to join when Stan had set it up. However in the months that he had attended, Stan was proud to say that he had seen John come out of his shell, his constantly bitten down nails disappearing, and a certain new found confidence when the 16 year old spoke. But this time there was only wavering; a fight between coherence and the gulping sobs that he couldn't roll his words around.

"M-m-my parents," John stuttered, clutching his hair in his hands. "They… they…. Someone f-from my school… they wrote 'fag' on our driveway. My parents… they… they questioned me about it and… I-I just couldn't hide it anymore. Th-they… they were furious, Stan… they... they said that I… they th-threw me out. They said… they said they didn't want a f-f-faggot for a son…."

Stan swore under his breath; John had been mentioning for a while that he was finally intending to open his closet door to his parents, and some bastard had ruined it for him. Stan was willing to track down the said bastard and… he wasn't sure what he would exactly do to them, but whatever it took to show them what their childish sabotage had caused. But this was not the problem at hand.

"John? Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"

"No…."

"No relatives? No friends?"

He shook his head forcefully, his eyes darting to the clock. Stan took notice at this.

"Don't worry, I swear you won't be sleeping on the streets. We'll find somewhere." He grasped John's shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, his other hand exploring in the depths of his pocket, and retracting when his fingers had closed around his phone.

Stan quickly tapped in a number, cursing every time it rang with no answer. However on the fifth ring, a bored, tired voice seeped through the earpiece.

"Hello, you have reached South Park Temporary Housing. How may I help you?"

* * *

**12/6/2001 – 20:17pm**

"_Get the fuck out of my house! Get the fuck out!"_

"_Randy, please!"_

"_I'm not having him live here now… now…. Just get out! Pack your bags! Out!"_

"_Mom…."_

"_Just do as he says, Stanley."_

"_Mom… I'm your son, Mom…."_

"_Please, Stanley… just do it…. Please…."_

* * *

**12/5/2008 – 20:07pm**

Stan flipped his phone down angrily. Needless to say, those at Temporary Housing had been less than helpful. _"Why is your need urgent, sir?" _And as soon as the words 'thrown out by homophobic parents' had left his lips, an annoying cacophony of 'umm's and 'aah's had followed, before the final nail had been struck in that _"You call at 8 at night expecting a place for you? Well, sorry Bud, but I'm afraid that young single mothers currently have priority" _and a monotonous dialtone was the only sound after that.

"Heh, trust the breeders to get in before us, eh?" said Stan, in a feeble attempt to add some humour to the situation. A couple of others had turned up while Stan was making his phone call; they took a second to desist from their comforting of John to offer up a small glare at him.

"Sorry, not the time," said Stan apologetically. "I wouldn't ask unless it was an emergency, but there isn't a chance he could go back with either of you?"

They both shook their heads. "My ma would wanna know why, and I still ain't told her and don't plan to tonight," said the elder of the two, Marcus, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"Dammit… I'm going to have to go with uber-back-up." Stan punched in another number into his phone. He didn't like it when it got this far, but as he had learned from personal experience, there was no better place to go when it was starting to get late at night and nowhere else to turn to.

"Sheila? It's Stan again… yeah… I'm afraid we have a bit of a problem…."

* * *

**12/6/2001 – 20:26pm**

"_Kyle… Kyle, help me, please…"_

"_Stan! Jesus Christ, what happened?"_

"_They… they threw me out… they didn't wanna know…."_

"_It's okay, it's okay… it's going to be alright, Stan."_

"_How… how can it be? They hate me… they hate me!"_

"_They'll come around."_

"_No they won't… they hate me…."_

* * *

**12/5/2008 – 20:13pm**

"Sorted," said Stan finally, with a sigh of relief. He gave the now calm John a reassuring look. "You've a place for tonight, at least. It may not be one hundred percent perfect, as I would prefer you to go somewhere that you personally felt safe and comfortable with, such as a friend or relative, or somewhere especially prepared for situations like these. But I promise you, you will be safe."

John nodded appreciatively, a smile contrasting to his red and watery eyes. "Thanks, Stan… I don't know what I would have done if…."

"It's my pleasure, and theirs too. They're the same people who took me in when I was in the same situation as you were. Like I said, you're safe there."

The mood of those in the community center brightened considerably after that, especially that of Stan Marsh. Even as a young boy, he had always tried to do right by people, he had always told someone if he thought they were out of line, he had always tried to uphold moral standards, and yet it wasn't up until the point that he had realised that he was gay himself that he had thought about being overly political on gay issues. Stan knew gay people, certainly. His teacher and fair few residents among them, and he had always known that he supported these people when he thought there was injustice done against them, but it wasn't until Stan realised that he was not merely a supporter, but among them, that he realised just how serious the problem of homophobia actually was.

Religious issues, social issues, traditional values; homosexuality was under fire from every community, with nobody in power willing to stand up and support it, for fear of being pushed out of their cosy little position because of so much stigma attached to it. And yet in the end, every argument against homosexuality had a counter argument. It says it's wrong in the bible? Stan could remember picketing a church that had ejected one of its gay parishioners, a sign clasped in his hand that read "_Leviticus 11:9-12__: God hates Shrimp!"_ He was far from against religion, himself a Christian, but he did not agree with the "Let's use bible passages that support our hatred and ignore plenty of others" theorem that modern churches seemed to use. It was no better than exploitation. Exploitation of a bunch of stories meant to help people live their lives as better people, used to justify hatred and bigotry.

Yes, there were big issues such as this in the controversial topic of homosexuality, and Stan would have given all he could to eradicate all controversy in it. But as much as Rome couldn't be built in a day, Stan couldn't do all that in one fell swoop, and so he had to make do helping the people face to face, one at a time. And yet even though in the grand scheme of things this one little sorting out of overnight accommodation was a miniscule blip, Stan could not help but feel happy in the knowledge that he had managed to help this one person, to be able to be there and give support when this person needed it most.

"Just make sure you ring your folks in the morning though, to see if they've changed their minds after sleeping on it."

"They won't have," muttered John. "They're stubborn like that."

"I dunno," said Stan. "People can change their minds when it concerns people they love. Just ring them in the morning, and if they're not willing to accept you back, we'll sort you out a more permanent place to stay."

"Thanks, Stan. It means a lot."

Yes, it was a mere blip on a much larger scale of a problem, but as Stan reasoned, if every young gay person had the access to this kind of support, it would be less of a problem. All he could do was what he was able to do.

* * *

**26/8/2004 – 13:37pm**

_Sharon Marsh didn't even know why she had excused herself to return back into the synagogue; something Kenny had said barely a few days ago had resonated around her head ever since, and for some reason, she felt that this, and only this, could rid herself of that horrible gnawing nagging at her conscious._

_Her eyes darted around the large white building, focusing on the dais at the front, almost a Jewish imitation of the pulpit from her own church. She caught herself; Judaism had come before Christianity, so was the pulpit the real imitation? Although, in all honesty, that was not the reason she had come back in._

_Falling to her knees in front of the dais, Sharon clasped her hands together, pushing them against her forehead. Kenny's voice arose to her immediate train of thought;_

"_**You came about a couple hours too late to finally make your peace with him, I'm afraid. But I'm sure he'll forgive you, if you ask him now, just like he forgave his parents."**_

"_Kyle?" she whispered uncertainly, unsure of whether it would have any effect or not. Could it even have been sacrilegious, a Christian praying in a synagogue? Still, they were essentially the same God, just one religion believed in Jesus and the other didn't._

_Again, she berated herself for attempting to think too much; she had to say it now, while she was in a holy place, and while she still felt she could._

"_Kyle?" she repeated. "I… I don't know if you can hear me… I just… wanted to… apol- apologise…."_

_The words began to flow freely from her tongue, as if she had memorised them. It was like draining a swelling, as if something poisonous was being extracted from her. "I'm so sorry, about everything. You were so good to my Stanley, and I just couldn't see it. I couldn't allow myself to see it, because then I would be condoning it and I just… I just wanted to not have to deal with it. I just wanted a normal son. I had such high hopes for him; a girlfriend, a wife, grandkids…. I let what I wanted get in the way of his happiness, and yours. It's no excuse, I know, and I am so sorry… so sorry. But I swear, Kyle, I swear I won't let it happen again. I'm just so sorry it had to end like this…."_

_As Sharon opened her eyes, the synagogue was filled with a sudden bright light. Her heart fluttered, believing it to be the answer to her apology. It had to be; it could not be down to chance. A clapping sound from behind caused her to turn quickly._

"_Sun just came out," said Kenny with a smile._

"_Were you… did you hear?"_

"_Every word, Mrs Marsh." He grinned even wider. "I think Kyle approved, don't you?"_

_Sharon looked towards the dais, the window flooded with sunlight, and a sudden wave of relief washed over her._

"_Yes," she whispered. "I think he did."_

* * *

**12/5/2008 – 21:57pm**

Stan slipped the key into the apartment lock and opened the door to Kenny, his hands on his hips and his lips pursed into a frown.

"And just where have you been?" Kenny asked, his finger almost threatening to wag in the face of the tired looking Stan.

"Well, that's a fine thing to come home to, eh?" Stan grabbed Kenny by the wrists and pulled him into a close embrace. "I thought you'd have learnt by now that I much prefer this."

Kenny patted Stan's back soothingly. "Rough night?" Stan couldn't help but marvel at his boyfriend's psychic ability.

"You have no idea."

"Well, I may have no idea, but I do have ideas on how to make it all better." The blonde haired man winked to get his point across, dragging his fingernails softly across Stan's chest and treading closer to the bedroom door. "Just wait a minute while I slip into something a little more… naked."

"I love you so much, do you know that, Kenny?"

* * *

**20/8/2004 – 11:55pm**

"_Pulse! We gotta pulse!"_

"_BP's rising… he's back… he's back with us."_

* * *

**Over 4,000 words. I'm very proud of myself :D**

**This was the chapter I was fretting over most though, so I'm glad it's done. And I know exactly where this is going now, so Hooray! :D**

**And a shoutout to omg. they. killed. kenny this time, who is the only person to have reviewed EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER of Never Lost so far. Admittedly, it's only four so far, but hey... Thanks buddeh! Reviews make Gari a happy panda :D**

**Thank you for reading!**

**Gari.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Never Lost**

* * *

People who can't think of anything else but whether the person you love is indented or convex should be doomed not to think of anything else but that, and so miss the other ninety-five percent of life.

~Robert Towne

* * *

**22/8/2004**** - 12:01am**

"_Wheel him in there, into that cubicle."_

"_Jesus, he's a mess…."_

"_Vitals are low…."_

"_Flatlined in the ambulance, we got a pulse back, but to be honest, it's not looking good…."_

"_Mr… Marsh, was it? The police are here, they say they want a statement from you."_

"_Please… please… Kyle…."_

"_It's okay, sir. We realise this must be a difficult time for you…."_

"_Please… just… save him… save him, please… please…."_

"_We're doing all we can."_

* * *

**13/5/2008 – 7:00am**

A buzzing sound infiltrated the brainwaves of both the dozing Kenny and Stan, who were still locked in the embrace that the both of them had fallen asleep to. And although Kenny was warm in Stan's firm looped arms, the dark haired young man could not help but emit a shiver, a cold sweat drenching his torso and last night's nightmare still plaguing his waking thoughts.

This of course could not go unnoticed by Kenny, who with simultaneous flicks of his wrists silenced the alarm clock and pushed aside Stan's fringe, gazing at him with concerned eyes.

"Stan, my man? Is everything alright?"

Forcing himself to smile, Stan clasped Kenny's hand in his fingers, playing with it like a cat would a piece of string. "I'm perfectly alright, Ken. I just need a shower is all."

The blue eyes beneath the blonde grew brighter. "Oooh, I think I might join you," he said, winking for unnecessary effect.

"And I think I might just let you...."

* * *

**22/8/2004**** - 12:48am**

_Stan's hands shook uncontrollably as a kindly nurse sat him down, muttering empty reassurances as she pressed down on his shoulders, forcing him into place._

_There was nothing behind these words; she had probably had to say them to every relative who came in – "They're doing all they can", "They're in good hands now", "The hospital is the best place for them". Stan shook his head briefly; Kyle had always hated hospitals. He had had to visit them often enough as a child due to his vulnerability to illness. Stan himself was never a fan of this place, and even now he could feel the blood pumping heavily through his heart and veins as his eyes darted from the children's drawings to various certificates and diplomas that hung lopsidedly upon the wall. But Stan was the only one in whom Kyle had confided his own inexplicable fear of the sterilised rooms, the men and women all breathing through their surgical masks, the shiny instruments that were scattered on every trolley...._

_Stan rose up quickly, pushing the nurse's hands out of the way._

"_What on earth do you think you are doing, sir?"_

_Stan was hyperventilating, he just knew it. But still, this was no time to be thinking of oneself. Through his own ragged breaths, he screamed at the woman who was in his way._

"_He needs me! Please, I need to see him! He hates this place just as much as I do! I can't just leave him on his own!"_

_Stan could just see it now; Kyle, hooked to various whirring machines while doctors butchered his insides. A sharp grip upon his shoulders brought him back to reality._

"_Sir! You really must calm down!" The nurse's kind face was etched with a frown, as she attempted once again to steer him into a seat. "There is nothing you can do for him now, please, just leave it to the professionals!"_

"_No... please!" he begged, desperation seeping into his voice, as his hands shook further, sweat coursing down his clenched fists. "I need to see him now! I can't just leave him!"_

"_Mr Marsh! Please!" She pulled out her trump card quickly. "If you do not cease with this irrational behaviour, I will have you removed from this hospital!"_

_His eyes were pleading, yet she would not budge. "If you just let the surgeons do their job, Mr Marsh, your... partner... Mr Broflovski will be...." She hesitated again. She was not allowed to give friends of the patient any false hope. It seemed, however, that Stan had got the message behind her cease of words, as he hung his head sorrowfully, pressing his forehead to his knees._

"_He's going to die... isn't he?"_

_The silence was almost deafening._

"_P-please...." Stan stammered through his gasps. "Please... answer me...."_

_The door slammed shut, and Stan was left alone in the pale room, with only a lingering smell of disinfectant and his own bloodstained thoughts for company._

* * *

**13/5/2008 – 9:18am**

Stan beamed as he held the phone to his ear. "That's great! So he can head back almost immediately? Excellent!"

His tone of voice only mirrored the smile that stretched across his face. It was undeniable for anyone who could have seen his face at that moment to have thought anything other than that Stan Marsh had received good news. Julie, Stan's next desk neighbour, caught his grin, smiling at him in return.

"Go on, Stanny, I know you're just dying to tell us," she said as Stan had positioned the receiver back into its cradle.

"Well, let's just say that John's parents have seen the error of their ways already," he said jovially, returning to his seat and his hands upon the computer keyboard. Julie and the other workers who had overheard nodded and smiled approvingly.

"It's always nice to hear these stories that work out, isn't it?"

_It certainly is, Jul,_ thought Stan to himself, as he busied away at his computer, working on the updates for the Foundation's website. _It's just a shame my parents didn't come around as quickly...._

He took the thought in his mind away before it could fester into something worse. What did it matter if his parents hadn't approved then? Hadn't he been able to live just as much even without them? Hadn't he made something of himself in those years? What did it matter if his father no longer spoke to him or his mother?

"If it's not going to kill you, it shouldn't stop you."

Stan grinned inwardly as Kenny's voice infiltrated his brain. No, his parents' disapproval hadn't killed him, and he was able to spend the best years of his life with the love of his life.

In a twisted sense of the word, they had done him a favour.

* * *

**12/6/2001 – 19:57pm**

"_Where the hell have you been, young man?"_

_Stan rolled his eyes; two seconds through the front door and already he was receiving a verbal reminder that he had missed dinner. His mother, complete with disapproving glare, was burning her gaze into Stan's icy stare._

"_What do you have to say for yourself?"_

_A monotonous "sorry, Mom" issued from his lips. In truth, although he did feel bad for missing out on the ultra-fine cooking of Sharon Marsh, he did not regret the evening he had spent with Kyle; watching the evening sunset light up the snow that continuously held its presence in this otherwise godforsaken Mountain town. Heck, it was romantic and sappy, not something that either one of them would admit to being, but it was little moments like that that could make Stan heart flutter; the idea of doing something completely meaningless, yet to share it with the one he loved. And besides, no matter how romantic, sappy or meaningless it may be, spending time with Kyle certainly beat spending time with family._

"_**It's strange, isn't it Stan?"**_

"_**Mmmm?"**_

"_**Just how the position of the sun can change so much; in colour, intensity, in the reflection upon the snow...."**_

"_**My my, Kyle. So poetic."**_

"_**Oh, you want poetry, do you?"**_

"_**Oh yes, Kyle! Give me your poetry now!"**_

"_**How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...."**_

"_**Oh! Yes! Kyle! Poetry! POETRY!"**_

"_**You're insane, y'know that?"**_

"_**You love it though."**_

"_**And when did I ever say that I didn't?"**_

* * *

**28/8/2004 – 10:40am**

Stan held the small worn book lovingly in his in his hands, as the shaking fingers of Gerald Broflovski had released it from his grip.

Stan had recognised it immediately, from the dark thumbprints that had stained the cover, to the small neat handwriting that framed each page's typed print. It was their high school poetry book, enough to make Stan groan at the memories of falling asleep in English class, as their teacher attempted to drum into their minds the stanzas of Coleridge, Blake and Arnold.

And yet as Stan snoozed away (and flunked) English, Kyle would always be sat beside him, scribbling away in the margins, taking notes of every sentence, dog-earing the page if he particularly liked it. Stan could never care for it like Kyle could, and although Kyle was the winger to Stan's quarterback, the dark haired boy could never help but admire Kyle's dogged determination to juggle his studies, basketball and football. At Stan's very mention of this, the Jew would merely throw back his head in laughter, clapping his hand to Stan's back. "Determination? Dude, I love all three. Why would I not want to do all if I could?"

A sporty nerd. Stan didn't know how it was possible, but Kyle did it; the hero of the basketball team, Stan's deputy of the football team, and Honour roll student.

It became painfully obvious to Stan that although Kyle was achieving top grades in each subject, that it was English that captivated his mind more than any other. Kyle could devour a single book in less than a day, and recite the whole thing the next.

What could Stan do? Throw a ball?

He could remember that time when Kyle had come in to school that one morning, a scarf wrapped around his neck as he sneezed constantly into a tissue throughout the day. Stan, always concerned for Kyle's welfare, had been quick to question him about this rapid sickness.

With an embarrassed smile, Kyle had answered "I fell asleep outside."

Stan had raised an eyebrow. "Outside? Dude, wouldn't your bed been more comfy? How the fuck did you manage that?"

The familiar glazed look had come over Kyle's green eyes. "Don't you ever just lie down, and look at the skies?"

"Well... no... they're just there...."

"You can't beat nights like last night's though; nights where the clouds of South Park seem to merely fade away and you can view every single star in the sky. No matter how cold the evening air nor how damp the grass was last night, there was nothing better I could have done than just lying on the grass and taking in the sensual beauty of twinkles in the sky."

"Are you feeling alright?"

Kyle had given another grin, followed by another hearty sneeze into his pack of tissues. "Perfectly fine, Stan. You should try it sometime, y'know?"

"Ch'yeah," Stan had scoffed. "When you flunk English, I'll fall asleep on some damp grass."

Kyle had persuaded him however, a few years later and when their relationship had taken the fateful turn from merely friendship to more. Stan could not help but marvel at what Kyle had been able to see before; the sheer artistry that the heavens granted to them. As they had lain, side by side, fingers tangled into each other, Stan could not remember feeling so calm. His heartbeat had slowed, compared to the relentless drumming that it normally played, as he tossed around a pigskin.

"Kyle?"

"Yes?"

"I'm so sorry."

Kyle had propped himself onto one elbow, his eyes reflecting the scene from above that they had come specifically to watch. "Stan?"

"I'm sorry that I'm just so... uncivilized. I mean... I know you're all into your deep meanings and stuff, but I just... never saw it before."

"Stan? What the hell are you talking about?" Kyle was now leaning over Stan, his fingers lightly brushing Stan's cheek. He quickly took hold of the fingers, his voice earnestly trying to convey his apology.

"Kyle, you do so much. You're smart, you're active, you're.. just... awesome, in all aspects of the word. And what can I do?" His hands and eyes dropped, relinquishing their view of the stars above.

Kyle however, brushed the dirt off his back, moving himself to sit in a squatlike position on Stan's stomach, folding his thin arms as he did so.

"What... the hell, Stan?" He closed his eyes, much like smug people do, and tutted loudly. "Okay, a little humility is cute, but seriously, you shouldn't take it too far. It's not becoming at all."

"Kyle, you don't...."

"I do indeedy. After all, psychology is another of my many strengths." His tone of voice had turned into that of a teacher's, and Stan was trapped under Kyle's weight, and therefore forced to listen to the redhead's lecture.

"Stan, you can be a complete whiner, you let your emotions run away with you and, quite frankly, you cannot follow a plan through without my help.

"However, I on the other hand, am stubborn, with a terrible temper and awful hair. And yet for some reason, you feel the need to exclaim just how sorry you are at being unworthy of me. Now, I ain't gonna ask what's brought this on, as, like I said, you can be far too emotional, and even some completely irrelevant, minor incident could have brought this on. But I will tell you this; I do have my faults too, even if you are too gallant to notice them yourself."

The smug, know-it-all look had transformed into one of playful mischief. "In fact, why don't you list them now?"

Stan groaned, still attempting to shift Kyle off his midriff; Kyle certainly wasn't wrong about stubborn, although he may have meant it in a mental point of view, there just was no moving him if he wasn't prepared to budge. "You've made your point now...."

"Oh no no no! Stan, my man!" He wagged his finger erratically as Stan gave in and was hit by sudden inspiration.

"You can go really over the top, d'you know that?"

"That's one." Kyle lifted a finger.

"And you never shut up about certain things."

"Two."

"And you have this reservoir of useless facts; like we watch game shows, and when they ask what year some random guy was born, or how long a pig's orgasm lasts, you know it all! But you can never remember your keys or phone! Do you realise just how friggin' annoying that is?"

The counting fingers had disappeared, as Kyle held up his hands. "I'm sorry, Stan," he mumbled in a mock sheepish voice, as even his lip trembled.

"Not to mention," Stan continued, "you can't act at all."

Kyle finally rolled off Stan, finally ending the charade of a lecture. "Well, we certainly seem to have ditched the rose-coloured glasses and temptation to self hate, haven't we?"

It was true; for all his faults, whether it be that he would be able to ace a math test and yet leave his head behind if it weren't stuck to his neck to his frequent Jewish rage, to Stan, he couldn't have Kyle any other way. And it would seem that Kyle was a follower of this same statement. What did it matter if Kyle could do things that Stan couldn't? He could certainly give Kyle a run for his money when it came to other things. Nobody could match Stan on his parallel park, for example. Plus, there was the clichéd pickle jar scenario. Even if the guy with bulging muscles couldn't yank off the lid, Stan had a certain knack to it.

Hey, they may not have been awe-inspiring talents, but damn, they sure came in useful.

"I don't need rose-coloured glasses with you, Kyle. In spite of your obvious flaws, I can't help but still love you."

"Well well, the tables sure have turned haven't they!"

"Indeed they have." Stan rested his head on Kyle's shoulder, both returning their view to the stars above. As if realising just what had brought on his moment of lack of self-worth, Stan whispered to Kyle.

"Well then, if you're meant to be the deep and meaningful poet out of the two of us, tell me what you can see, Shakespeare."

"'Twas noontide of summer," Kyle was lost in his reciting almost immediately, as Stan listened intently. "And mid-time of night; and stars, in their orbits shone pale, thro' the light of the brighter, cold moon, 'mid planets her slaves, herself in the Heavens, her beam on the waves."

And even as Stan held Kyle's old high school poetry book in his hands, with shaking fingers, the pages turned almost of their own accord to this very poem; it was evident that it was one of Kyle's favourites and that he had viewed it religiously. The join in the page was practically non-existant through years of consistent poring over the page. The notes were written with a certain fervour, as if Kyle had been dying to get his interpretation down on paper.

Flicking the pages, he came across one particular poem he had never seen nor heard of before, noticing that it was written entirely in Kyle's neat blue script.

"He... he wrote...?"

It was, and yet wasn't a surprise to Stan. Kyle read so much waffling drivel that he was bound to have a go at writing his own sooner or later. But as Stan read through the words, it was plain that it was not mere drivel. Crossings out littered the page, and the writing was almost unintelligible. The words that Stan could make out strung together in lines of pure masterpiece, the last couplet standing out, underlined and highlighted...

"_Yet shadows no longer enclose me with savage bond,_

_And we breathe in the dazzling radiance beyond."_

... that it emitted the brilliance that it spoke of.

The brilliance that Kyle had emanated in Stan's life, and the brilliance that would never fade, never be lost, not even though Kyle's life was extinguished. That could never be taken away from him.

Stan clutched the faint pages to his chest, as the memories and his eyes both flooded him and he felt... so alive.

* * *

**11/7/1997 – 06:35am**

Stan opened his eyes quickly, his heart still beating at what seemed to him to be more than a million miles an hour. He sat up, anxiously determined to calm his rapid breathing, which he had noticed alongside his heart. Wiping his fringe from his brow, he felt a cold sweat drenching his face.

And then he remembered the dream.

Swinging his legs to the side of the bed, Stan pushed himself up off of the springy mattress, mentally scolding himself for allowing "it" to happen again. It was as he was making his way to the bathroom to splash some water onto his face that he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and allowed himself to hang back and gaze at his reflection.

The memories rushed back in a depraved wave, almost as if he was trying to punish herself for that revelation that he had first discovered three years ago. Yes, it had been three years almost to the day that he had admitted his greatest secret of all to this very mirror and to himself. Three years of staying silent whenever the topic of relationships came up, three years of ignoring constant questions of "Have you got a girlfriend yet?", and of course, three years of remaining silent when any topic of homosexuality came up, be it good or bad. Stan could not risk anybody finding out about her, be them friend, stranger or (least of all) foe. It was like a constant game of poker in which he could not fold, but have to play the right cards every time. Any little slip up, and his secret could be blown right open, but as long as he could keep up, keep playing the correct cards every time, then nobody needed to know. He could indulge herself into her fantasies as much as he liked, as long as they remained both fantasies, and hidden.

But it had seemed, no matter how hard he could try....

He was failing.

He was failing to keep up that front, that front where he merely ignored sexuality full stop, where he became detached from the subject altogether.

It was difficult to say the least, as those around him in his peer group appeared to be less than favourable towards the community that he considered his own. Insults were tossed, names were mentioned, and in more than one instance did he hear boasting of "gay bashing" as they took to calling it. And every time, the shame rose like bile in his throat, his darkest desires threatening to display themselves to everyone else; it was so easy, all he had to say was "Don't talk about gays like that again!" and everyone would be onto him. Stan would have played his cards wrong.

He clenched her fingers against the cold surface of the mirror, not caring when it cracked beneath his palms, and a slow trickle of blood from his fingertips made its way to the bottom section of its wooden frame. Stan couldn't do it anymore; every single day for three years he had woken up, remembering just what he was, and wishing that he could change it. But in his heart he knew that it was impossible, that he was stuck that way, and had to get used to it.

"I don't want to be a pervert," he whispered.

As much as he could admit what he was, he knew what the gay and lesbian community were like; he had seen them on TV; the promiscuity, the drugs, the everything. Stan wasn't like them; he liked guys, yes, but he didn't feel a part of that lifestyle.

"I don't want to be wrong."

Everything felt wrong. Stan constantly felt every gaze upon him, as if the spotlight was aimed only at him, and any mistake, any inkling that he was… different, people would know, and people would judge, and people would HATE.

"I don't want to be wrong."

* * *

**12/6/2001 – 19:58pm**

"_Stanley!"_

_His head jerked upwards towards the noise, and he felt a sudden shaking of the shoulders._

"_Stanley! For the love of God! What is with you? You come in late, no explanation of where you've been and some half-assed apology! If something is wrong, please, just tell me now!"_

_Heh, trust his mom to take the "I'm angry at you yet worried at the same time" approach; she could always pull it off so well._

"_Stanley Marsh, please! Don't ignore me like this!"_

"_Mom..." he started, yet was cut off by Randy, who had overheard from the den. It was unlikely that he had entered into the conversation because of any concern of the matter at hand; it was more probable that he had only come over to try and shut them up before the football game started on TV._

"_What the hell is going on here?"_

_Sharon made shushing motions to Randy, although her eyes didn't leave Stan. "It's alright, Randy, we're just having a talk."_

"_What have you done this time, Stan?" he muttered, both males knowing that Sharon could nag for the Olympics if she put her mind to it. Although firm, she was fair, and wouldn't be using her skills unless necessary._

"_I got home late, sorry, Dad." Stan once again tried to escape up to his room, but to no avail._

"_But you've been home late quite a few times now... and you seem so distracted, I'm just worried Stan..." Sharon was beseeching him with her eyes, a look that dragged him down the three steps he had climbed._

_Maybe... just maybe... it was time to let them know. After all, he had just turned nineteen, he wasn't some little kid anymore. Stan no longer had any fear himself of being gay any more, although he had tried to deny it profusely a few years back. But Kyle had accepted, the friends he had told so far had accepted it, and heck, even Cartman had accepted it, although he had taken it upon himself to call them "Fag #1" and "Fag #2" in conversation._

_Even the clincher came in that Kyle had managed to tell his parents, and they had come to terms with it... enough. Admittedly, every visit to Kyle's now was like walking on eggshells. But at least they tolerated it, which neither of them had expected, considering Sheila's constant exclamations on how her "bubbe will one day get married to a lovely Jewish woman" alongside deep digressions into his suit and the flowers and "you'll look lovely as his best man, Stanley!"_

_Stan's memory of Kyle's coming out to his parents was vivid; the drop in both his parents' faces, before they both hugged him tightly, easily wrapping their arms around his thin shoulders, and then as they could put two and two together as Stan had mulled in the background, disappointment visible in pained eyes._

_But despite their discomfort at the "situation", they loved him still, not letting it diminish their relationship with their son. Occasionally they had brought it up, only to be told yet again that Kyle's orientation still hadn't changed as they hoped, yet their reassurances that it was "fine" and "not a problem" had come barely a second later._

_Just maybe... if Kyle's parents knew, could it be time that Stan's own parents deserved the same privilege? After all, they were presenting him with a perfect opportunity right here, and they had always been liberal in their views. And even if they were disappointed, he could live with it as long as they still loved him._

_He cut off his mother mid-nag with a wave of his hand. "Mom, Dad... please... I need to tell you something...."_

"_Look, I've been distracted because... well.. it's hard to explain, well... actually it isn't. But, you really should know..."_

_Their faces showed only curiosity and worry about his revelation. He could see the questions on their lips; are you ill? Are you upset? Are you worried about work? Is it a girl...._

"_Mom, Dad, I'm gay."_

_No, Stan was wrong; it wasn't time for his parents to know. And to put it in the most blunt of terms, all hell broke loose._

* * *

**First of all, a sincere apology for just how long this has taken me to write. NaNoWriMo in November, plus writer's block in December, plus exam mocks in January put this chapter on serious hold. But it is out now. Hooray. :D**

**And the couplet that Kyle wrote is one that I myself wrote; it's the last two lines of a poem I am submitting into a competition and I just worked it in. :D And the one he recites is Evening Star, by Edgar Allen Poe. And the "GIVE ME POETRY!" bit is from Moulin Rouge. Ironically, I was just watching it as I was putting in the bit about the poetry book and so I just added it in. :D**

**So yes, not much more to say than my deepest apologies and my ever present "thank you for reading!" as you actually taking the time to read what I've written is appreciated.**

**Thank you for reading!**

**Gari**


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